Morning arrived without ceremony. The outer sect did not wake with bells or chants. It woke with labor. Buckets scraped stone. Doors slammed against frames. Voices rose in complaint and fell in dismissal. The huts did not soften sound. They carried it.
Logs were stacked near the gardens. Not for warmth. Not for construction. For labor. Each disciple was assigned a quota. Split wood until the pile diminished. Carry water until the buckets emptied. Sweep until the courtyards cleared. Kael's quota was higher. Not by accident. By misclassification. The medallion had marked him as labor. The attendant had dismissed him as surplus. The sect did not care if he endured. It cared if the pile diminished.
He lifted the axe. The weight pressed downward, familiar, constant. His grip tightened. His breath slowed. He swung. The first strike jarred his shoulder. Pain flared. Breath collapsed. The log did not split.
Noise before silence. Silence before endurance. Endurance before survival.
He swung again. The blade bit deeper. His stance corrected. His spine aligned. His breath steadied. The log cracked faintly. He swung again. The log split. Success was not triumph. Success was damage. His skin tore. His muscles strained. His joints faltered. His breath collapsed. The axe did not forgive. The log did not care.
He paused. His chest burned. His breath hitched. He forced silence. He lifted again. Strike. Pain. Breath collapse. Recovery. Strike again. The repetition loop pressed inward.
Others faltered. Others cursed. Others abandoned their quotas. Kael remained silent. His breath slowed. His stance aligned. His body endured.
The girl from the gardens passed nearby. Her steps were uneven. Her bucket spilled faintly. She glanced at him. Gratitude flickered again. She did not speak. She did not linger. She moved on.
Kael lifted again. His body trembled. His breath collapsed. He forced silence. He swung. The log split. He carried more than assigned. He worked longer than required. He bent his body to tasks others avoided. By appearing compliant, he avoided attention. By enduring silently, he avoided punishment. By carrying more, he avoided suspicion.
Inside, the split sharpened. Cold survivor: This is cruelty. This is burden. This is classification. Shameless otaku: This is the sect arc. This is the trope. This is the climb.
"You saw them," he whispered to the axe. "All of them waiting for caves. Waiting for points. Waiting for recognition. We know better. We know survival is silence. We know burden is classification. We know cruelty is the system."
The axe did not answer. But Kael continued. His breath slowed. His stance aligned. His body endured.
Noise before silence. Silence before endurance. Endurance before survival.
This was the first forging cycle. Damage → Arrest → Analysis → Rewrite → Reinforcement. His body tore. His breath collapsed. His stance corrected. His muscles adapted. His joints endured. His skin scarred. His body rewrote itself.
The sect did not care. The logs diminished. The quotas remained. The medallions glowed faintly, then dimmed. Strength was demanded. Beauty was burdened. Wisdom was survival. The path ahead was not cultivation. It was forging. The axe would grow heavier. The logs would grow harder. The quotas would grow larger. The sect would not notice. The sect would not care. The sect would not forgive.
Kael did not smile. But he did not bend.